


though fire burns under your feet

by SparkleMoose



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Magic, Songs of Power, Tolkien Elf Gets Dumped in Thedas and Kisses a God, Tolkien Elf Magic is Different Than Thedas Elf Magic, Weird Soul Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkleMoose/pseuds/SparkleMoose
Summary: Nemir would have been content spending the rest of his life wandering Middle-earth even as his kin sailed for the West. He would have been content fading into the background of history, a bloodied ghost none would speak of.Fate is a cruel master, however, and Nemir finds himself in a place, in a world he doesn't recognize with a mark on his hand and a Wolf at his side. This world has no fated ending, and so Nemir will do what he can to stop the Breach in the sky from consuming Thedas.Even should it cost him his life.





	though fire burns under your feet

**Author's Note:**

> so, a while back, in novemeber or october, feynites and i talked about what a tolkien elf being dropped into thedas would look like.
> 
> thus this fic was born.

Nemir knows he isn’t supposed to exist in this world. That his very existence in this world defies everything he’s been taught in Arda. The Eldar aren’t supposed to exist outside of Arda and yet here Nemir stands, out in the open air with frost chilling his breath as he stares at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

 

Or what’s left of it. The explosion has left the Temple a ruin, a once glorious sight is now filled with rot and slaughter. Nemir remembers the things chasing him and wonders if the corpses that weren’t killed by the explosion met their fate at the hand of those creatures.

 

Nemir turns his gaze from the ruin around him to the Breach. Ever since he had woken up in a cell in Haven he had been able to tell something was off. The energy in his hand seems to sing, unlike any song Nemir has heard before. It seems to play an unknown waltz and lead the world in its footsteps. The Rift’s sound the same, as though they were put there on purpose, as though they are trying to bring the Veil down around them. 

 

Nemir wouldn’t doubt that is the intention behind them. The Breach itself sings the loudest, sings of longing and hunger and aching. It cannot help that it would destroy this world any more than a bird can help singing. It does not mean to be what it is but it is.

 

Thus it must be stopped.

 

Nemir may not belong in this world but that does not mean he would stand idly by while it is destroyed. There is no prophesied destruction here. If this world ends it will be the fault of those who live here.

 

Letting out a sigh, Nemir fingers the hilt of one of the daggers and considers his companions. Of them all, Nemir is most fond of the dwarf. Varric, his name is, has a quick wit and manages to keep Nemir distracted from his imminent execution.

 

To think, Nemir has survived three ages of Arda and is going to be killed in a world he barely knows. It’d be funny if it weren’t so depressing.

 

The elf, Solas is much more, fatalistic. Nemir would say that it’s a byproduct of having worked so closely with the Fade if Solas hadn’t given off the aura of someone who knew far more than he should. It reminds Nemir of the aura Gandalf had given off the last time the two had met each other.

 

Needless to say, Nemir is suspicious of the other elf. Nearly suspicious enough to attempt and breach the other’s mind using his limited skills with Ósanwe. He doesn’t, whether out of the respect he has for his newfound comrade or because he doesn’t want to think he would stoop low enough to invade another’s mind Nemir can’t say.

 

Cassandra is another matter altogether, she is a proud woman, yet burdened with doubts. Whatever comes, Nemir feels as though she will be at the head of it. Guiding, leading her people to victory.

 

Nemir, on the other hand, has no intention of surviving closing the Breach. He could feel the mark on his hand knit itself into his soul. A constant ache that made me him tired and wary.

 

He had no intentions of finding out what he would become should the mark finishing knitting itself into his soul.

 

With a sigh, Nemir slides his hand off the hilt of his blades, one of the only things that came with him into his world, and stares at Solas.

 

“You say that if we close this Rift we stand a chance of closing the Breach?” Nemir says, less of a question and more of a statement. At Solas’s nod, Nemir continues, “I would have to open this Rift before we close it again, correct?”

 

Solas quirks a brow, “Indeed,” he says, “Though opening it again will likely attract attention from the other side.” 

 

Nemir nods, resolute in his decision. 

 

“Alright,” he says, making his way down the path leading to the Rift, “Might as well get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

Opening the Rift is easy.

 

Killing the Pride Demon that came out of it is harder.

 

Nemir curses, a string of Quenya leaving his lips without him noticing, as he dodges another one of the demon's attacks. The lightning whip the demon seemed so fond of sending an archer crashing into the cliff behind them.

 

Glaring, Nemir throws his hand forward and watches as the mark on his hand connects with that of the Rift for the third time. Varric lets out a victory shout as the demon falls to its knees. 

 

Cassandra rushes forward as the beast staggers to its feet, her blade cutting into where it’s Achilles tendon would be had the thing been a man. 

 

The beast howls and raises its arms to strike Cassandra down.

 

Without thinking, Nemir lets loose a single high note, hard as sunlight and filled with enough rage it causes the creature to fall to its knees. Nemir wastes no time as the others pause in their attack to process what just happened and lunges at the creature.

 

His blades cut through the thick hide on its neck easily, the creature makes no noise as it falls to ash.

 

Nemir pauses, sheathes his blades, and walks towards the Rift.

 

“Wait-” Cassandra tries to say something but Nemir isn’t paying attention.

 

He raises his hand. Light seeks out light and there is a burst of green before everything is silent.

 

* * *

 

The other elf, Solas thinks, is Other.

 

There is simply no other explanation for it. It seems as though Nemir, as he calls himself, is neither really in this realm yet neither in the Fade. It is as though he is a relic, something from an age lost past that simply longs for rest. It is as though he doesn’t belong in the waking world or in the Fade, as though he is a creature of both worlds and now that Veil has been erected he struggles to exist.

 

Solas isn’t sure how to feel about that. Had he not been certain that spirits could no longer take physical forms he would have thought that Nemir was one of them. From what he had observed Nemir moved smoothly, smoothly yet with an uncertainty he had only seem in those still adjusting to corporeal forms.

 

Nemir is a mystery, Solas thinks, his eyes narrowed at the figure on the bed in front of him. Nemir’s eyes were closed in sleep yet it seemed unnatural on him. As though he shouldn’t have his eyes closed at all. It’s a ridiculous thought, yet Solas couldn’t help but think of the times Mythal had slept with her eyes open. 

 

An odd comparison to make, yet one he made nonetheless.

 

Turning his attention back to the book in hand, Solas barely got through a paragraph before a tired groan interrupted him.

 

“You’re awake,” Solas says, mild surprise in his voice, “Here I thought you’d be unconscious for another day at least.”

 

Tired silver eyes gazed at him, the veil of sleep still heavy in Nemir’s eyes. Nemir is striking, Solas can admit, with silver hair and silver eyes and deep brown skin he is creature that looked to be born of luxury. Had Solas been younger and more reckless he would have considered flirting with the elf already.

 

He does not. Instead, he closes his book and stands.

 

“How long has it been?” Nemir asks, voice bland save for the note of tired defeat Solas can’t help but notice.

 

“It’s been a day,” Solas replies, “The Breach remains, but it has stopped growing ever since you closed the Rift.”

 

Nemir lets out a heavy sigh and swings his feet over the side of the bed.

 

“I suppose I’m to be killed then?” he asks, eyes searching Solas’s own for answers.

 

A small smile quirks Solas’s lips.

 

“I do not believe so,” he says, “In fact, I believe you should head to the Chantry to find what lies in store for you.”

 

“Lovely,” Nemir says, bitterness in his voice as he stands nonetheless.

 

Solas follows after him and watches in amusement as Nemir watches soldiers bow before him with a tired resignation.

 

As though he had people bow to him before and was tired of it.

 

Curious, Solas thought as he made his way to past the Herald and to his own cabin.

 

Curious indeed.


End file.
